The Sidlaw Hills

My heart lies under,

A small patch of land,

Not mapped by satellites,

To which I have the rights,

A postage of Angus,

In the countryside,

I know the quarry,

And discovered the rocks.

Don’t let anyone say,

That they were there before me,

I was the first and I’ll be the last,

On my small mental holding.

I was scratched by the gorse,

And I married the heather,

The white clover burns my soul,

On the little patch of Angus,

To which I’m tethered.

My dad was there with his dad,

Forgetting about everything,

They roared in silence,

About the myth of accession,

Laughed and derided,

The prison of possession.

My dad was there with his dad,

Forgetting about everything,

They roared in silence,

About the myth of accession,

Laughed and derided,

The prison of possession.

But I possess my little patch,

And it possesses me,

Locked together as one,

Eternally.

My father is there,

And he and I,

Share tea from the fire,

And views by and by.

Yes my heart lies under,

A small patch of land,

Bang on those Sidlaw Hills.

To a Bee

Thir’s a bee oan yer back Churchie,

Thir’s a bee oan yer back,

But ye wouldnae really want me,

Tae say that.

You ken better,

Coz ye spoke tae The Man,

An’ Eh jist didnae treh hard enough,

Or Eh’m jist no in yer plan.

Well thir’s still a bee oan yer back,

An' he’s crawlin’ aboot,

An' mibbe gonnae sting,

He wiz happy ootside,

But then in he flew,

Tae find esel’ oan yer faithful pew,

Lehin’ there oan you, oan you,

Wha tells me whit tae think,

When aw that Eh can think right now,

Is will the stinger sink?

Thir’s a bee oan yer back Churchie,

But Eh’ll keep it tae m’sel’,

Seein’s you ken better whit’s goin’ oan,

An’ you ken better wha’s goin’ tae Hell.

Well, he’s still there Churchie,

An dinnae you look daft,

Wi’ that wee buzzer crawlin’ ah aboot ye,

Baith in yer best Sunday gaffe,

Ye can tell iz whit tae say,

An’ ye can tell iz whit Eh cannae,

Ye can mak oot that ye dinnae shite,

An’ that ye’ve never had a fanny,

But wee Buzzy’s goin’ naewhere,

In front o’ whaur Eh’m sat,

An’ he’s no such a hypocrite,

Like Burns was no nae twat.

But Eh couldnae care less for nothin’,

‘Cept right now for that bee,

Eh hope he doesnae fleh awa’,

Afore anyone can see,

Eh hope he stings you in the heid,

And gies you michty woe,

Then Eh’ll believe the scriptures,

O’ reapin’ whit ye sow.

The Deid Goarse in a High Wind

Like the deid goarse in a high wind,

Meh love an’ fear, they burn,

Like the heid coarpse wha hauf sinned,

Baith, they twist an’ turn.

Meh love an’ meh fear, meh grace an’ meh hatred,

Meh compassion an’ meh selfishness,

Meh respect an’ meh meanness o’ spirit,

Meh desire an’ meh desire,

Eh can see it aw, there.

Like the deid goarse in a high wind,

Meh desire an’ desire, they burn,

Meh addiction and abstinence,

Desire an’ desire,

Like the deid goarse ablaze,

Annihilatin’ athin’

In its road,

Reclaimin’ athin’

Tae nothin’ but,

The black and the grey,

Makin’ athin’,
 Simple again.

Burnin’, blazin’, ragin’,

That deid goarse gaes up,

Like a fuckin’ toarch,

Ablaze, oan fire,

Like meh desire.

The hoarses manes oarange demons,

Hear the crackle through the thunder,

As they stampede wi’ solar flair,

From whaur asunder?

The riders tak the form,

O’ the chokin’ smoke,

Which maks a grown man creh,

Spinnin through the wind,

Afore turnin’ quick tae deh.

Like the deid goarse in a high wind,

Goes the deid goarse in a high wind,

An’ there’s nothin’ like it,

Tae pit a man in his place.

The First Voice Ye Hear

The first voice ye hear,

Act oan it, act oan it,

Let the second be mackin' the plan.

Let the first face ye think o’,

Be o’ the bairn,

Let the second face be o’ yer Mam.

The first thought ye hae,

In the moarnin’ light,

Let it be miracle world.

Combined wi’ closed ehs for less lucky souls,

Afore ye are even unfurled.

The last thought ye hae,

Dwell on it, dwell on it,

Mak share the crowd’s no a fake.

An efter a’ that,

Sleep oan it, sleep oan it,

An Eh’ll still be here when ye wake.

It Startit

This was how it startit,

In an instant burst wie bliss,

And this was how it endit,

Framin’  shit and piss.

Framin’ ah the faecal matter makin’ up the man,

Framin’ ah the shit an’ piss an’ life flushed doon the pan.

Authomania

The sordid in your soul so rare,
That only you can see,
The sordid in my soul so rare,
But naebody writes like me.

But naebody can write like me,
Naw,
Naebody can write like me,
Come ane,
Come aw,
Come an see,
Cos naebody can write like me.

Ye high-class plume,
You must assume,
Eh'm whaur Eh waant tae be,
But Eh've only just stepped in the room,
An there's naebody here but me.

Come wi yer femily,
Stoap an stare,
View the freak that spells out free,
Catch what it's like,
Tae hae nae fears,
When naebody writes like me.

The sordid in your soul so rare...
Nae manners an nae artifice -
Nae manners an nae fuckin artifice -
But naebody writes like me,
Naw,
Naebody writes like me.

Jist as Eh Wiz

Eh'm jist as Eh wiz, freend,
Eh'm jist as Eh wiz,
Jist as stupit and jist as confused,
Eh am, jist as Eh wiz.

Eh'm jist as Eh wiz,
When we were thegither,
Laughin' an' shootin' the breeze.
Ehm jist as Eh wiz,
When we were alane -
Ye can still trust me...
Eh'm jist like a wiz...
Eh'm nae different.

Eh lost meh narrative track again,
Jist like Eh did back then,
When we nirly pissed wersels.
Eh'm jist like mehsell 'cept aulder.

Sae greetins,
An' salutations tae ye,
It's moi.
'Member me?
Eh remember you.

Epiphany

Eh realezzed  that Eh hid tae dae,

A deal wi' Goad,

Eh realezzed that Eh could,

Dae a deal wi' Goad,

That Eh hid somethin' tae bargain wi',

An' the abilitae,

Tae imagine him.

Eh did a deal wi' Goad,

Eh wid believe in meh creation,

In return fir the abilitae,

Tae occupeh meh time,

Wi' exacktly whit Eh wanted,

Tae occupeh meh time,

Wi'.

Except for shoart periods geed-up tae reflection throoghoot the day,

And Sundays gi'en ower tae praise an' contemplation.

Eh've done a deal wi' Goad now,

An' Eh'll maybe see ye oan Sunday,
But no in the Kirk,
Coz he's no there.

The Pictchur Above

See that wee man,                                          Do you see that small man,
On the bike,                                                       On the bike,
That's me.                                                          That's me.

An' later in life,                                               And later in life,     
I had a Volkswagon,                                      I had a Volkswagon,
Wi' a wing mirror.                                         With a wing-mirror.

This wee spedder,                                          This small spider,
Cah'd Freida,                                                    Called Freida,
Youst tae bide in the mirror,                    Used to live in the mirror,
Came oot in the sun.                                     Came out in the sun.

Me an' Freida,                                                 Freida and I,
Had a blast,                                                      Had a great time,
In that Polo,                                                     In that Polo,
Buzzin' aboot,                                                   Driving around,
An' buzzin' aboot.                                                And driving around.

Then came the cresh,                                  Then came the crash,
That lost pare Freida,                                 That lost poor Freida,
An' the mirror -                                             And the mirror -
Her hale hame,                                             Her whole home,
Went spinnin,                                               Went spinning,
Doon the brae,                                              Down the hill,
Pare wee thing,                                             Poor little thing,
Spinnin doon the brae.                                         Spinning down the hill.

Eh'll eyewiz remember ye,                                    I'll always remember you,
Wee Freida,                                                   Little Freida,
Ma wee spedder,                                         My small spider,
An' ma bike,                                                  And my bike,
An' ma Polo.                                                 And my Polo.

An' ah that graffiti,                                    And all that graffiti,
On the corrugated door,                         On the corrugated door,
That ever since,                                                 That ever since,
Eh've tred tae emmulate,                                     I've tried to emmulate,
Wi' nae luck,                                               Unsuccessfully,
In these faecal verses,                                      In these shitty verses,
Spinnin' doon the brae.                         Spinning down the hill.

Habitual Cynicism

We,

We kerry roond,

The greatest pehn,

The sherpest thoarns,

The heaviest stanes.

That pehn o’ desire,

For a repeat experience,

The pehn o’ longin’,

O’ missin’,

Whaur a second lasts eternity.

We ah miss somebody,

Yer Ma or yer Da,

Yer bairns,

Or yer brother or sister,

Yer freens,

Or yer doag.

A song or a view,

The company o’ a freenly face,

A feelin’ in the pit o’ yer gut,

A freedom fae yersel’.

We,

We kerry roond,

The greatest pehn,

No rich,

No poor,

No stervin’,

No overfed.

The greatest pehn,

O’ crehin’ an crehin’,

Dear Christ,

Eh miss ye,

Dear Goad,

Eh miss ye.

An’ if ye only kent,

If ye only felt the same weh,

Right at that moment,

When Eh felt that weh,

Wid get rid o’ it,

Baith o’ us,

Deid or alev,

That terrible pehn,

That awful desire,

Pehnful,

Longin’,

Awful,

Empty,

Crimson Psychosis

Eh knocked this ane oot,
Fir the smell,
O' the period,
O' crimson and lilac,
Which possess me,
To shiver ah ower,
Shiver,
For That,
Which winnae,
Come again,

As the flesh,
And the time,
Has cheenged,

It winnae come back,
Cannae come back,
But it has - deformed,
Askew,
Incongruous,
Representit,
By its ane shadow,
Which is never enough,
Rapin' iz, grabbing iz,
Mauling, fondling,
Immersing, suffocating,
Lovin-in,
Thae deep crimson smells,
In thae deep crimson wells,

An' Eh suffocate,
In this bliss,
This crimson memory,
This lilac Hell,
For only bein' hauf.

Existential Solipsism from the Scheme (inspired by Andrew Brennan)

How should Eh hae tae learn mair things,

When Eh ariddy ken enough,

How should Eh worry what tomorrows bring,

When thir might no be enough.

How should Eh fret ower whit you feel,

When thir’s naebody here but me,

How would you spend yer time theday,

If ye kent what it was tae be free.

Eh, but thir’s somebody else wha’s relle-in on you,

There’s mair tae the picture than that,

It’s responsibilities plague yer life,

No’ questions o’ that, an a' that.

How should Eh dae whit you waant me tae dae,

Wha gies somebody else they rights,

How should Eh live a life o’ no consequence,

When beauty’s eyewiz right in ma sights.

Oh but it’s consequence ye got when ye made a life,

An food on the table is needed.

Suppose there’s plenty o' berries in the park,

But  the tatties appear tae hae seeded.

Eh, but yer happy tae hae yer car and yer phone,

And yer thousand pound compute,

Ye stopped at the station and goat right aff,

And gied up yer right tae commute.

Well, wll bide in a tent an gie up this life,

We can bring up the wee ains wi pride. 

How should wi no’? Are ye ready to go?

Are ye so share will end up inside?

It’s no goin inside that Eh’m bothered aboot,

It’s the state o’ what’s inside o’ you,

Ah yer philosophy’s everbeen’s  jist excyase,

Fir bone-idle banter an spew.

How should we  hae tae pit up wi each other,

When wi baith ken wi baith can dae better,

Ye wir never a wife, only ever a mother,

Tae me jist a constant sare fetter.

How should you hae tae get aff yer arse?

How should you hae tae bring in the beef?

How do you ken that there’s anyone here?

Here’s how! Bang! Did ye feel that Chief?

Meh Work.

Meh work, Eh keep, for the hillside fire,

For the hillside fire,

Hillside fire,

MEh work, it flames oan the hillside fire,

Alang wi' Louis MacNeice.

Meh work, Eh abandon upon this mire,

Meh putrid choir,

 O' spent desire,

Meh work, it flames for naeone tae see,

'Cept me, 'Cept me,

'Cept me.


-

The Tartan Scarf.

"No-one said anything to me,

No-one spoke,

Until a small boy looked up,

And angrily shouted,

'Stop glaring at me!'

Causing by accident,

To come into being,

The moment I realised,

 Just how threatening,

I hadn't become,"

Said the man,

 In the tartan scarf,

At the bus stop,

In the tartan scarf,

Next to the boy,

Who he no longer saw,

To the tartan woman,

Who looked away,

While he struggled to stand,

Next to the boy,

In his tartan Hell.

-

Reviews.

Select reviews on "Chef and I: Lyrical Salads and Literary Vandalism":

https://sites.google.com/site/literaryvandal/about-chef-and-i

Reviews Dec 2012 –

“Finally, a luddite blessed with elan.” – Gary Cunnard, “New Man’s Magazine World”

“I’m sure the author of Lyrical Salads will die in poverty. Not because it is unworthy, but because most men producing work of this quality tend to go unrecognised in their own lifetime and often die in their own filth.” – Maria Perez, “South American Contemporary Literary Review Magazine”

“How a man can be so Scottish, yet so “Not-Scottish” is beyond myself and every one of my colleagues here at the newspaper.” - Rabbie McGlashlin, “Auchterarder Gazette and Post”

“This is perhaps the most sexual book since Fifty shades of Grey” - Durna Thorpo, “Woman’s Hour”

“Depressing. Intelligent. Brilliant.” -  “Bloomfeldt’s Who’s Who of Modern Literature”

“If you don’t understand it, it must be good, and we challenge anyone to understand Mr Guthrie.” – Chi Chee Hun, “Japanese World”

“Utter shit.” – Dr LE Cowper, “Dunkeld University Press”

SEWING

Learnt all about Jeanie Malloch today,

She sounded like a good friend,

I'm sorry to hear that she passed away,

Another stitch which won't mend.

-

FUCK OFF, BRIAN

Fuck off, Brian,

Yer da'in ma heid in,

Get away tae fuck wi ye,

What are ye sayin'?

That ye dinnae understand the plot?

Ye fuckin stupit numpty,

Ye wouldnay ken a line fae a dot,

Ye fuckin garrulous cunt.

Fuck off Brian,

Ah've had enough o' ye,

Friend tae nane,

There's no nae nounce tae ye.

Ye cannae commit tae

Judgement or sense,

Yer happy tae sit

Oan yer rickity fence,

Ye fuckin garrulous cunt.

Well, fuck ye ye cunt,

Ye fanny,

Ye cock,

Coz athin hereafter'll,

Come as a shock.

Ah'm Brian,

Aye me,

Brian's ma name,

An it's me Ah've been tellin,

Tae fuck an tae blame,

For the soul Ah've been sellin -

An it's me,

That'll burn,

In eternal flame,

But fuck you, tae,

It'll dae ye good,

Coz ye'll still burn wi me,

In Hell, like ye should,

Ye fuckin garrulous cunt.

ME AN THAT JOON

"For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,

The pith o' Sense, and pride o' Worth,

Are higher rank than a' that." Burns, "Song: For a' that and a' that."

Me an That Joon. (First pub. by Poetry24 22/02/12)

Did ye hear aboot that Joon wha bides doon the Hull,
Sh’wiz foond dade this moarnin in a bath that was phul,
Mind, she went oot wi that hoodie that wiz intae that rap,
They got meltit th’gither an thieved fae the Gap.

Sh’wiz a bonnie lass afore a that,
Now she’s left that bairn alane in that flat,
She sung at the Kirk when she wiz jist a lassie,
Far creh fae th’day when her ehz turned ah glassy.

At the Highwayman, she sung like Whitney,
Efter watchin her faither aye dae Gene Pitney.
Och, sh’hid pipes like the wind through the heather,
An she eyewiz hid time fir a fag an a blether.

Anyweh, you get back tae Jeremeh Kyill,
Yer trackie’s near dreh and yer tea’s in a whyill,
Get back tae the news an shoutin at nations,
Flickin through blame while ye flick through the stations.

Aye, an spout the twa lines ye ken frae The Man,
But treh tae remember, Joon’s life’s doon the pan,
An a parcel o rogues?
Naah,
Jist mair moths tae the flame,
Coz Agnes is fillin her bath jist the same,
Droonin her troubles an burnin her hay,
As that stream in the backgroond just bubbles away.